Hell Doesn't Have to be Lonely
by missavc34
Summary: They were like oil and water, black and white, night and day, apples and oranges, Summer and Winter- whatever you wanted to call it, they were opposites. But apparently no one ever told them that opposites attract. Liebgott/OC
1. Prologue

**_*This chapter is dedicated to the Guest whose birthday is today! Happy Birthday :)_**

* * *

**January 1945, Somewhere In Bastogne **

I huddled in the corner of the war torn room, shivering against the frigid floorboards, my cheek pressed up against the yellow wallpaper in a desperate attempt to keep myself from freezing to death. Heavy footsteps and shouting made the floors beneath me creak in protest, not to mention the machine gun fire in the distance which always made everything shake. I chewed on my stumps of finger nails, and held back the tears threatening to fall at the realization that I could soon be dead.

_How did you get here?_ The voice inside my head tried to reason with itself and I sunk further back into the floorboards, waiting for the large man with the raspy voice to come back and ask the same question in German.

_Wie bist du hierher gekommen?_

_Wie bist du hierher gekommen?_

Maybe I should start at the beginning…

**New York, NY, May 1944**

That particular Tuesday in Manhattan was by far the most squelching hot day in all the twenty years of my life I'd spent in the growing city. My stocking-less feet sweat in my flat brown loafers, and I could feel my hair working itself up into an attractive frizzy mess as I emerged from the Subway and stepped onto the steaming sidewalks. Desperately fanning myself with the latest copy of the New York Times, I watched in delight as children danced around in the spraying fire hydrant water, purposely broken for the school children to cool themselves down. I let out one last grin at a little girl squealing and hugging her hands to herself as she danced in the water. Glancing down at my wristwatch I reluctantly collected myself and continued on my way down the hot sidewalks, soon blending into the scenery with the sea of other rushed morning commuters.

...

"Good morning Miss Abbott," Elena, the building receptionist peaked her head up from a typewriter and I waved back with a cheery smile, simultaneously arranging myself to be presentable and somewhat professional before entering the elevator.

I blinked when the elevator door shut, and clutched my briefcase. I waited for the slow elevator to ding at each floor, but in typical New Yorker fashion, I kept my eyes looking straight ahead along with the other suited men in the small space. _This was the calm before the storm._

Like always, I instinctively smooth my hair on the 47th floor, straighten my skirt on the 48th, and exhale on the 49th. The elevator doors open on the 50th floor to a deceiving sight. Gertrude, the secretary sits peacefully at the large wooden circular desk and on the dark blue wall above her are the large metal letters that spell out The New York Times. Gertrude bobbed her perfectly groomed red head and offered a perky greeting. "Morning Charlotte!"

I noded back to her with a smile "Morning Gertie."

Gertie's always been pleasant to me, even when my internship was up, and I signed on officially as a journalist, and every man in that office seemed to hate me—Gertie still offered me a friendly greeting and a coffee with cream and sugar every morning. Knowing that at least someone in the office was rooting for me gave me the determination to come to work during my first months as a journalist, and slowly but surely most of the other men warmed up to me.

"The usual?" She motioned to the coffee station.

"Yes, please." I smiled in gratitude and opened the glass doors, stepping into the buzzing news room.

The room is an experience all in itself. Everyone chain smokes, and fills up the room with their own share of nicotine. There's always a hint of whiskey in the air combined with the spicy scent of men's cologne. On this floor of the News House, every person gets a large wooden desk but no enclosed offices, hence the loudness.

_That day was a busy day_.

Men shouted orders across the room, argued with people on the telephone, clacked away on their typewriters, chewed on pencils and the faint sound of the radio news in the back could overstimulate an outsider easily.

_Luckily I was used to this busy sight, and I loved every minute of it. _

"Get your ass to work Abbott." Bob Collier yelled from at me across the office and I offered back a small eye roll that he doesn't notice.

"Yes mother." I retorted sarcastically under my breath.

...

I dropped my briefcase and examine the calling notes on my desk. I sigh. There all from the WAACs, thanking me. I did a story on them to help get women encouraged to join the war effort, it was published in that day's paper and the general must've already gotten ahold of it. I resolved to telephone them back later, as it seems that I would be occupied in a meeting with the Editor in Chief that morning.

I worried about what he could possibly want.

...

The Chief's office stands alone on the 53rd floor of the paper house. He's not the boss-boss, he's just the chief of the newspaper, not the magazine too. But still, I've never had a positive meeting with this man. Mr. Stein is his name and he's middle aged with silver hair, a heavy Native accent, and he wears custom made suits. He's considered a legend in the world of journalists and I gulped as someone showed me into his wood paneled office.

I suddenly wish I'd chosen to wear heels.

He turned around in a large leather chair and gave me a once over before inviting me to sit. I tried not to sink into the plush leather chair as I crossed my legs.

"Mr. Stien." I offered him a polite hello and folded my hands into my lap.

"Miss. Abbott." He rasped out, an obvious smoking man.

"A drink?" He stood and gracefully moved to a tray filled with all types of whiskey. I grimaced, not the biggest fan of whiskey.

"Coffee please." He clapped his hands together and I raised an eye brow. _Why exactly am I needed here?_ Stein sent his assistant to fetch me some glorious caffeine and moved to sit behind his tower of a desk once more. He folded two hands stacked with rings atop the desk and stared at me with narrowed eyes. I grew slightly annoyed under his scrutiny.

"Is there something I can help you with?" I asked with assertive politeness, biting my tongue to hold back a sassy comment.

He looked at me for a few more seconds before speaking. "I liked it." He leaned forward on his elbows like he was divulging some secret.

"And so did the President."

_Come again? _

"Liked what sir?" I remained a statue under his scrutinizing stare that always seems to feel judgmental.

"The WAAC article." He lit up a smoke and offered one to me. I graciously obliged. I leaned back in my chair, and I couldn't believe what I was hearing. For a moment I was at a loss for words, an unusual occurrence. Mr. Stein shook his head as if he couldn't believe it himself.

"Mr. Roosevelt called me up this morning himself, and asked who this Charlie Journalist was," I nearly choked on my coffee and come dangerously close to spilling it all over my navy shirt dress. Clearly stunned, I carefully placed the cup and saucer on the table next to me and rasped out some sort of a sentence.

"He—The Pres—Mr. Roosevelt, called?" I stuttered in complete and utter aw. A million questions ran through my mind all at once.

_How did he read it so quickly?  
The president?! __How did the man find the time? __He knew my name? __Again, the president?_

Stein pulled me from my thoughts and with a slight glimmer in his usually icy eyes, he recounted the whole conversation to me animatedly. He tells me about how the president thought I could dig into the hearts of many people on the home front with my words. He explained that Roosevelt liked my down to earth approach to the article, apparently I made the job of becoming a WAAC seem a feasible feat. The president thinks_ I _contributed great amounts to the female war effort with just my words alone.

All these compliments coming from the leader of our country made my heart swell with pride, and embarrassed heat flooded to my cheeks.

It's the last part of what Mr. Stein said that caught me the most off guard. "Mr. Roosevelt requests that you write more articles pertaining to the war,"

"Did he?" I squeaked

"Yes." He cracks a challenging grin, and suddenly I feared what I'd been assigned. _Not a women's column again. _I'd been writing women's section stories since I came to work at the times, and frankly, it was beginning to feel like I wasn't being taken seriously as a journalist. _Maybe Mr. Roosevelt will change that. _My stomach did excited somersaults at the thought.

"Paratrooping." He lifted his eyebrows suggestively, like _paratrooping_ was some sort of naughty word_. _I took a quick sip of coffee before leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms with sudden ease.

"Paratroopers?" I lifted a groomed eyebrow, and stared at my editor, intrigued. Women are NOT paratroopers, and any woman who dared to challenge those rules would surely be a long running joke. I wasn't to keen on being a long running joke, but I was _very_ keen on expanding my horizons as a journalist, and a person.

"Life Magazine 42'—you've read the article about the 101st Airborne?" Stien asked, and I immediately remembered the well written piece about the parachuting men who "fell out of the sky." I bobbed my head up and down eagerly.

"Absolutley sir."

"Well then you're assignment is settled." _Assignment?_

"Sir?"

"Chilton Folait Airborne School. Write a stunning article about the training a paratrooper endures. From a women's perspective. We want these home front ladies to know we believe in them!" _So I'm a lab rat? _I resist the urge to roll my eyes and retort with an anti-sexist comment. Even though I'll be a lab rat, I'm forced to agree—I've got to earn my assignments, and maybe, just maybe, this will open the doors to further opportunities.

"I'm anticipating the challenge sir." I squareed my posture and made eye contact with Mr. Stien. He stood in his perfectly tailored suit and firmly shook my hand.

"Good luck to you Ms. Abbott." I turned to take my leave and I talked over my shoulder. "Same to you, Mr. Stien."

….

I must've looked a sight—juggling three bags of groceries in my arms all the while fishing for my keys in my purse.

"Goddamn," I huffed under my breath. Finally I heard the jingle of the keys and felt the cool metal beneath my fingertips. I shoved the the key in the lock, and after some furious jamming, I was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief as kicked my shoes off and stepped barefoot onto the familiar cool wood planks. "Mother- I'm home." I called through the house, the keys leaving a resounding plink when I dropped them into the glass bowl. Making my way into the kitchen I heard her yell "Hello Mi Amor!" From the depths of her art gallery in the back room. I rolled my eyes at her greeting, _she's decided on being French today, then._

Setting the brown paper bags on the counter I turned on the radio, and let the sweet sound of Glenn miller float through the house and open windows onto the sidewalks of our quiet Manhattan neighborhood.

Stirring the pasta, I grimaced when I contemplate what dinner has in store. All of us Abbotts sitting around our large harvest table, like the normal American family. _Not exactly. _We hadn't had a normal family dinner since my parents announced their divorce a year before, the last June. I remember it well: I sat with my mother and father and tried to reason with them, as usual. My older sister- Helen stormed off—overcome with extreme pregnancy emotion, and my older brother Archie "went for a drive". Family dynamics were well displayed that night. Ever since then, my father ate dinner at some unknown location and Archie went off to war, forcing us to drop our large harvest table down two leafs. But that particular night, we would put a leaf back in because Daddy would be home to hear my news.

Honestly, there was really nothing I could do about how dinner would go, it was completely out of my control… like it or not. On that thought, I let myself become absorbed in stirring the Bolognese sauce, and swayed my hips rhythmically to the tune of Tuxedo Junction. I glided across the checkered floor with ease, casually resting an innocent glass of red wine in my right hand, and reaching for ingredients in the ice box with my left. I ran my finger along the rim of the pan and tasted the red sauce with delight, _the perfect tang._ I leaned over the stove to taste my pasta, and also to my delight found it to be perfectly aldente. All I needed to do was sauté the asparagus and grate the Parmesan cheese.

The warm wind wafted through the windows and blew my curls around gently, and I let out a content sigh. I lifted the cast iron pan and tossed the green stems of asparagus, bobbing my head up and down singing loudly to Chantanooga Choo-choo

"Dinner in the diner, nothing could be finer, than to have your ham and eggs in Carolina,"

"Bada bada bah bah—"Shaking my head along with my off key singing, I was fully in the swing zone.

"Lottie!" Helen violently broke my nice moment with a dramatic shriek that sawed through any ounce of pleasantness the moment could have held. I kept my back to my sisters theatrics for a few moments, gripping the range and letting out a few soothing breaths before turning around to face Helen the Hormonal Hurricane. Briskly turning around with a tight smile plastered to my face, I couldn't help but feel the need to smirk at her utterly disheveled appearance. Her red hair was wound up into tight curlers, that were beginning to come undone, half of her face was makeup free while the other side had a whole layer covering her pink skin, she had a piece of waxing paper on her upper lip, and her pregnant belly was practically bursting out of her too small robe; but the best part of it all, was the fact that my usually well-coiffed sister housed a piece of poop on her left cheek. Oh yes, what I can only assume was baby feces, doo-doo, whatever the hell you want to call it, that was it.

Resisting the urge to laugh, I discreetly motioned to my own cheek hoping she would pick up on my message—no such luck. "Whaat sister, dear?" I purred sweetly in a tone that could hopefully get me out of Hurricane Helen's fit of rage. She balled up her fists at her sides and let out an exasperated sigh to which I rolled my eyes.

"Lottie, it's the babysitter, she has the measles. Alexander _can't_ just be by himself. And, I have my women for the war effort cocktail hour-" she paused and glanced up at the clock in the corner of the kitchen "In a half an hour!" I thought she was going to burst into tears. I hated to be selfish, but all I could think about was that I was leaving for my assignment tomorrow, and I only had tonight to spend with my family—but Helen just had to be busy.

I hesitated for a moment, but knew that watching my fourteen month old nephew was the right thing to do, and besides, I love that chunky little man to death. "Of course I'll watch him Helen," I said in a reassuring tone, anxious to get back to cooking dinner.

Her mood suddenly changed from distraught to filled with glee, and she clapped her hands together and bounced up and down like a small child getting what they wanted. "Oh thank you Lottie!"

"I owe you one," She practically skipped out of the kitchen and back up the stairs to her room. I scoffed at her false statement and went on with my business. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't care about Helen and her trials and tribulations, but when she moved back home after her husband was shipped to the pacific with the navy, I had no idea I'd become a live in babysitter. I also had no idea that saying no to Helen was the worst idea after she'd become an emotional train wreck overnight—so my mother and I walked on eggshells around her, something I'd be glad to get away from for a while.

…

I kept Alex resting on my hip and tucked under my arm as I put the finishing touches on the table and dinner. He made gurgling sounds and chewed on a silver spoon with the determination of a true Abbott. I grinned down at him and he tugged on my cross necklace, examining like an investigator.

"What?" I cooed "Is it cheap jewelry?"

"No, he just has fine taste." I jumped at the sound of my father's voice, but soon grinned at the sight of him and closed the gap between us to give him a big bear hug.

"Hi Lottie Pie," He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and I squeezed him harder—I missed him so much! Breaking the hug I looked up at my ageing father and noticed his new grey beard.

"Hi yourself pops." He reached for Alexander, and I gladly released the chunky monkey from my tired arms.

"Let's go find your Grandma, Huh?" With that, the two boys exited the room in search of my ever bitter mother. _Oh this should be good. _And so should the rest of the night. I could see the headline: Crazed Wife Stabs Ex-Husband in Jugular Vein with Fork. Needless to say, I began to doubt my grand idea of a family reunion dinner to tell some exciting news of my own. I could've sent a letter, or maybe just a simple phone call would've sufficed.

…

Mother and Father appeared back in the kitchen out of nowhere. As soon as she entered into the doorway, she opened her arms in a dramatic fashion, showing off her colorful silk turquoise tunic and scarf. I could practically feel the awkward tension radiating through our large kitchen.

"Hello Lottie Dear," She over pronounced, and gracefully waded through the kitchen to kiss me on the cheek. It was all a show. My mother was usually relaxed, informal, and completely unreserved—but tonight was a grand show, hell she even put makeup on for the occasion.

"Stop with the charade." I warned through gritted teeth

"What charade darling?" She pinched my cheek a little harder than necessary, and I took that as a warning to shut up. Taking a deep breath, and a discreet swig of wine I clasped my hands together and suggested we make our way to the dining room.

I poured the wine, served the pasta and soon the conversation flowed naturally to safe, neutral areas—such as my mother's exhibit opening at the Met, my father's Job at Columbia, and what Archie said in his last letter.

"Lottie Pie, the sauce has the perfect tang!" Father complimented me and I grinned, the bolanganase sauce always seemed to be a crowd pleaser.

He took a hearty sip of wine "Speaking of Lovely Lottie, Grace, have you read her article on the WAAC's?" I grimaced, he was challenging her parenting skills with an underlying judgment. What he really meant was: Grace, are you supporting our daughter as much as I am? My mother scooped some pasta into Alex's mouth before she let a tight lipped smile escape her lips that almost looked painful. Her eyes crinkled in the corner in a forced way and she spoke in the sweetest tone that could give any man diabetes. "Why yes, James—I read it with my morning cup of tea. William was here actually."

_Oh good. I was waiting for her to mention her rebound man. _

Father kept a friendly expression on his face "Oh yes, the male escort." I practically choked on my wine and my mother put a hand to her heart and let out a dramatic gasp.

"He is not!" Father just sat smugly back in his chair, while I desperately motioned for him to cut it out—he was acting in a completely unnecessary way.

"Just because he's younger does not mean hes some sort of a—a" Mother stuttered

"A man of the night." I finished for her. To be completely honest, I'm not actually sure what Will did, I think he was a freelance writer, but I wasn't certain. Really, all I knew about him was that he was a year older than my brother, which made the dynamic really, really weird.

It was time I interrupted the ice fest with something else, a subject change and I had just the thing to do it.

"So," I broke the silence loudly and sat up a little straighter in my chair. "I had something happen today." That caused both parents to break their intense stare down and go into full concerned care giver mode.

"What happened Lottie dear?" Mother practically cried out

"Who was he?" Father asked bitterly and I almost laughed at his concern. I shook my head and smiled.

"No, no, nothing like that." And I could see the relief cross their faces.

"I've been offered a story opportunity, by President Roosevelt."

"What?" They both gasped in unison.

"It's a three month long assignment, at a location that I don't know very much about to train like a paratrooper," My mother's eyes grew wide, and she leaped out of her chair to squeeze me into a rib crushing hug. "Oh Lottie! I'm so proud! So proud!" She smiled into my hair and I grinned she finally released me, father came over next and planted a kiss to my cheek. "You always were a little daredevil, weren't you?" He joked and I shook my head. Mother raised her glass in the air

"To female supremacy!" And I rolled my eyes at her feminist spin on it all, but I had to agree with the women's rights advocate. This was a huge leap for females. And I was proud to be a part of it.

* * *

**A/N:** _**Long time no see! Happy Spring:) This is the new prologue, I hope you liked it!** _

**A few notes:**

_**-I made a playlist for this story on Spotify, and it will be updated monthly, with new songs for each chapter. The link can be found in my profile.**_

_** -From now on this chapter will be updated regularly, on a monthly basis around the 21st each month! **_

_**Thank you for reading, let me know what you think!**_


	2. Breakin' Heels & Takin' Names

**Days Until Training Ends: T-Minus 80 days. **

Supposedly, there was a legend who walked the stark barrack halls of Chilton Folait Airborne School. And the legend came in the form of a tall, dark haired, Jewish Captain with beady eyes and a forced smile. The legend was Herbert Sobel, the man with the screeching yell who haunted my dreams and turned them into school-age nightmares. It was on the same day that I met the legend that I not only regretted wearing heels, but also regretted having the anatomical features that made me a woman.

It was the first day of training, the first day and I was being thrown into the pit of wild dogs head first without any prior knowledge. I can confidently and honestly say that I had no idea what the hell I was doing. And I'm sure it showed. I hadn't the slightest knowledge of what qualified as an about face, which hand to salute with—let alone who to salute _to_, and if my posture was up to par. All of the other men I was around, also going through the same training seemed like it all came so easily to them, like they were born with all that Military knowledge under their belts (this obviously wasn't true, they had just completed basic training, while I, at a disadvantage, hadn't.)

Everyone fell into place when the drill sergeants called the group to attention in front of the barracks, well, everyone except for me. I stood out like a sore thumb, though I was hoping I wouldn't. I thought the conservative white button down I wore tucked into a grey pencil skirt with black heels would at least keep me a little under the radar. I was wrong. Anything I wore compared to the meticulously ironed Class A uniforms, spotlessly shined boots, and perfectly combed hair surrounding me would make me look like a street walker.

Of course, my outfit wasn't the only thing to make me stand out. In front of the barracks, where we stood, was a gravel walk way. We lined up on this gravel walk way, anyone wearing boots could swiftly navigate to their rightful spot in the line, well, of course, except me.

"Fall in!" A deep yell signaled us all into action, and I followed the pack, confidently stepping off the grass and onto the gravel.

_One foot, two foot._

_One step, two ste—HOLY MOTHER MARY!_ I looked down to find my ankle twisted, and my favorite heel broken. I'm sure I was a glorious sight of hilarity, I mean, even I would laugh at me if I could've seen myself in that moment.

I flung my arms straight out to balance and teetered back and forth, trying to get myself centered and into the line. As I kept the show going, trying desperately to find my equilibrium, I felt a firm grasp on my upper arm and a hand on my lower back. Blowing a piece of hair out of my face, I tilted my head up to look at my savior. He was charming looking, he really was. A Lieutenant, and a Chaplin, I gathered from the cross insignia he wore on his uniform. He had blonde, thinning hair, wiry glasses that he taped in the middle, and sun tanned skin. And he had the same toothy smile that reminded me of my brother Archie.

"Are you alright, madam?" He asked in a soft-spoken, endearing tone of voice.

I shook my curls and swallowed, letting a lopsided grin slip from my lips. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Father Smith," He corrected me, and I let out another smile. "Father Smith, thank you for saving me." I stood back up on my own two feet, and smoothed over the wrinkles in my skirt with my free had.

He patted me on the back and shrugged his shoulders. "It's part of my job description." He joked "But, madam—"

I put out a hand to stop him "It's Charlotte."

"Charlotte, we should get back in line." He made a gesture to the impatient Drill Sergeants, giving me the evil eye, and I quickly agreed and thanked him again. I hobbled to a spot in the line, and two tall men made room for me, though I could practically feel the judgment and confusion running through their heads.

We all stood in all of our non-G.I. glory. Priests, Doctors, HQ Guys, and Linguists alike (including myself) all in a peaceful line of non-fighters, ready for someone who held the same values as we to come and train us. _Fat chance. _Instead, what we received was the presence of Captain Sobel.

He came out from the door of the barracks behind us and skulked around the line, so that I could just barley catch him out of the corner of my eye. He kept a riding crop under his arm like some sort of gallant General and commanded us to do several ceremonial military things. I followed along to the best of my ability, but as he waited for us all to stand at attention, I could feel him immediately single out my civilian posture, and certain, shall we say—female attributes.

He came to stand in front of my frozen form and glared right into my intimidated expression.

"What do we have here?" He practically whispered, narrowing his eyes and becoming inappropriately close to me, sufficiently popping my bubble of personal space.

"I said, what do we have here?!" He shouted into my nose. I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat and peeped out some sort of an answer.

"Nothing out of the ordinary sir." He scoffed in a painfully pompous way, stepped away from me, and began to pace back and forth in front of the line, the crunch of the gravel beneath him was enough to drive anyone mad. He shook his head a few times, scowling down at the ground beneath us.

"No, no, no," He started, and waved his finger to no one in particular. "You see, what we have here is very, very _rare._" The lecturing Captain switched his riding crop to the other arm. "A woman, without a rank!" He shouted and broke from his lecturing stance to come and stand before my embarrassed form again.

"Can you even fire a gun?" He half asked, half assumed, and I broke my frozen gaze to stare him dead in the eye.

"Yes Sir!" I said with gusto, completely lying through my teeth.

_Does that 500 page book I read about gun procedure on the boat ride over here count? _

"A liar too?" He squinted and with his hands behind his back, and carefully marched along the troops. Captain Sobel was quickly gaining a spot on the list of the most eccentric Military officers with each word that came out of his mouth.

"No! What we have here, is a _journalist._" He hissed, and the word came off his tongue like he needed to spit out the nastiness of it. It took every ounce of control in my body to hold back a comical snort. I was quickly becoming less intimidated and more entertained with the floor show.

"That's correct sir!" I spoke out, and he made a sharp turn on his heels—quickly sniffing out a breech in his line of order. I blinked, prepared to engage in a battle of facts with the uptight Captain.

His mouth twisted into a maniacal grin, and his eyes crinkled in a painfully stiff way. "Well I do wish you luck." He spat, patronizingly and ended his little jab session, for the moment anyways. I realized at that moment that this man was DETERMINED to make my life a living hell, but luckily for him, I was prepared to be a tough cookie to crack.

The cranky Captain spent the next hour singling out mostly everyone in the group, and finding something about them to make an example of. It was only the first day, and I was already quite ready to pack it in and hike back across the world to my nice little happy bubble back in New York.

That was all I thought about as I hobbled down the corridor, ready to get into my bunk bed, and rip off those pantyhose with runs in them I had so foolishly chosen to wear. _Why hadn't I worn pants? What was so wrong with pants? They got such a bad rap._ I honestly contemplated these questions until I finally wrapped my fingers around the cool doorknob, letting a relived sigh escape my lips when I set my sights on the bed in the corner, freshly made with olive drab sheets.

I shut the door behind me while simultaneously ripping the restrictive stockings from my body. I pulled the things down my legs but took in a sharp intake of air as my ankle reminded me that it most likely needed medical attention, ice, and a good soak in Epsom salts. I disappointingly thought to myself, that I would probably only be able to accomplish one of those three things, and tough it out.

I carefully sunk down into the wooden framed bunk bed, on top of the sheets and still in my clothing. I absently stared at the worn panels above my head, and wondered what other kinds of people slept in this bed, and if they were as unprepared for this as I was.

_…__.._

**Training Ends: T- minus 79 Days. **

"Dah duh da da da, duh dada da—"What in the hell was that deafening racket? It was coming over the loud speaker being blasted over the camp, and made me want to strangle whoever was controlling the loud noise. I quickly wiped the sleep sands from my eyes, and brought my wrist close to my face, looking at the time. 5:00 am.

Shit! That was the reverie! I was going to be late if I didn't hop out of bed at that instant. As soon as my feet hit the frigid floor, I let out a groan and a sigh all at once. I putzed around the closet of a room for a few moments, my hands reaching out and knocking over a few things in the process. I wasn't fully used to where all of my things were yet, and it was still dark outside, as well as my eyes being still fuzzy from deep sleep. I was looking for my duffle bag and the lamp at the same time. Finally, my hand hit something hard on the bottom and soft and smooth on the top. Deciding that it was the lamp, my fingers bumped around the thing for a bit before I found the switch, turned it on, and saw that my duffle bag was sitting right in front of me, on a dark wooden chair that matched the desk the lamp was on.

I let out a sigh of relief that I hadn't lost my luggage and all of its contents. Rifling through the bag, I finally found my uniform for the next three months. Olive drab Army fatigues, which said PRESS on the arm, and had an American flag on them just like usual except that there was no rank insignia on the lapels. I was glad that before I went on the voyage across the pond, I was able to have the uniform tailored to my size and height. Otherwise I would've had to walk around with suspenders and bunched up sleeves that would be a nuisance in day to day life.

I tucked in a white tee-shirt to the pants and put on the uniform shirt over it. I swooped my unruly curls into a pony tail, and laced up my brand new, very stiff, steel toed boots. My ankle immediately protested, but I really didn't have a choice. If I wanted to be taken seriously, soldier shoes were the only real option.

…

"Good morning Father Smith!" I exuded cheer and sunshine, glad to see a familiar face as I set my aluminum tray down on the seat in front of him. He looked up from his powdered eggs and stale toast and gave a warm smile in return.

"Well good morning to you too Charlotte." He extended his arm "Please, sit."

I gratefully obliged, and took a seat on the wooden bench. We made friendly small talk about the weather, and yesterday's initiation while I examined my food with uncertainty. Oatmeal wasn't really my thing, but neither were powdered eggs. So I settled on the soggy oats and covered them in as much brown sugar and raisins as I could.

"England weather is so unpredictable," I observed in between bites, and Father Smith shook his head in agreement "One moment you're walking in the sunshine, and the next moment it's, it's," I motioned with my hands at the large picture window at the side of the mess hall. "Cloudy." An unmistakably nasally voice finished for me. Quickly preparing myself for who sat down in the seat next to me, I took a soothing breath and let one last eye roll out of my system before turning my head the left. "Good morning Captain!" I oozed with superficial welcome-ness and a tight lipped smile. The dark haired captain's eyes started at my forehead and trailed their way down my body, as I watched in internal disgust. He took his time, trailing his eyes back up to my face before speaking "I see you've gotten a uniform."

I popped up one of the lapels with my hand and shrugged, trying to appear at ease. "What? This old thing?" Sobel leaned in on his elbows towards me, once again in my personal space. When he spoke, I could smell Army breakfast on his breath and I fought back the urge to gag. "I was hoping I could have a word," he nudged his head toward father smith "alone."

I crossed my arms and leaned back, sending pseudo confidence vibes. "Anything you are going to say to me can be said in front of Father Smith. He offers the utmost discretion I'm sure." I shook my head with an air of arrogance, to match Captain Sobel's. The father bobbed his blonde head up and down, looking at the sky. "I do hear confessions."

Captain Sobel rolled his eyes and sniffed, looking around the room for a second before puffing his chest out and giving me an earful. "You think I'll go easy on you because you're a lady. Well you are wrong."

"I never said that." I cut in, which only fueled the fire in his eyes.

"You better be prepared for the toughest training. I don't care if you're a war correspondent, a nurse, or a fucking monkey. I'll find your weak spot." He paused and examined my face for a brief second "And then you'll be regretting ever coming here in the first place."

I blinked a few times and cleared my throat, before rubbing my hands together. "Good talk, Captain. I'll be seeing you in the trenches then?"

"That confident façade doesn't work with me, Abbott." And with that, he unfolded his legs from underneath the bench and swaggered away from our spot in the crowed mess hall. I rested one arm on the table and picked up a steaming cup of coffee with the other. Squinting over the rim of my cup, I watched Captain Sobel's military posture disappear into the sea of green.

"Well he certainly has it in for you doesn't he?" Father Smith asked rhetorically and I could do was snort, before digging back into my breakfast.

The first full day would always be bad, the first day of anything was never good. It would be better once I fell into the groove of things and soldier life became routine. This is what I told myself through all the lectures and the jabs on that first day. What I told myself when during the course activities men wouldn't want to pair up with me, they looked at me like I was some sort of incapable creature. And when I pulled out my notebook to jot down notes during the Captain's lecture of organization whilst paratrooping and he singled me out of the group and asked if what I was doing was more important than what he was doing. _It was only the first full day, it would get better. _

Then, when we ran an obstacle course through the mud and I finished miserably last._ It was only the first day, it would get better._

And when I laid my head down on my pillow, not caring that I was covered in a thick coating of mud, just wanting to sleep away the all of the humiliation the day and its activities held._ It was only the first day, it'll get better._

…

**Training Ends: T- minus 60 Days. **

"One"

"Two"

"Three!" Sobel shouted into my ringing ear. At the sound of the signal, I gripped the straps of my pack and jumped off the old wooden platform. Once my body was mere inches from hitting the ground, I maneuvered my body to the side just as I had been taught. I landed on the ground, hip first, with a loud thud, instinctively curling my legs to my chest in shock, letting out a groan.

"You just broke both your legs Reporter!" Sobel screeched from his stage nine feet above my head. I squinted up at him and rolled my eyes.

"Bite me." I hissed under my breath and picked myself and fifty pounds of jump equipment up, and dusted off, skulking to the back of the line behind the ladder to platform.

Wiping the back of my hand over my sweat coated brow, I felt a strong pat on my back.

"You okay there reporter?" I turned my body halfway and glanced up at the burly man who asked the question. "All good doc." I let out a small smile and yawned, the rare appearance from the summer sun made me feel lazy and warm.

"Well alright." He drawled and I turned back around, grateful that a lot of the men, including Doctor Ryan had begun to accept me and treat me like an actual person. The only person who still held a large grudge against me and my reporting was the infamous Captain Sobel. The man was actually beginning to set me back, I thought as I moved forward in the line. I couldn't take photos in his presence, or notes, which in turn, hindered my whole reason for being there in the first place: reporting! We were going to need to change that fact if I wanted to do my job, which of course I did. I resolved to try to change his mind on Friday night, when most of the men had weekend passes. This way, I could explain to Sobel my need for my camera and my notepad in a civilized and uninterrupted manner.

Before I knew it, I was standing on the platform, in the same tense position again, Captain Sobel preparing to yell in my ear. The small pain in my hip reminded me to land correctly and to brace myself for the worst and then, one, two, three. I was falling through the air like a baby bird pushed from their nest. I had about three seconds in the air to think it over, and to get it right. Feet about to hit the ground, I slid them to my left and purposefully curled my torso in, preparing for my body to hit the ground in a large heap like a potato sack once again. But, instead, when I felt the air beneath my feet disappear and become replaced with ground, my body gracefully dropped to the ground, to the right, and it didn't feel like landing on a sack of bricks this time, instead I landed on the ground! Without injury! I was feeling quite ecstatic and let a wide grin escape my dust covered lips.

"Average. Reporter. That was average." Sobel screeched from his platform in the sky and I just laughed to myself, once again hiking it to the back of the line. I even got a few high fives from some of the men, and I couldn't help but beam. God it felt good to prove that man wrong!

I kept the same triumphant smile plastered on my face as the day wore on, and as almost every single man on the base left in celebration of their weekend passes. Though I didn't possess one of those passes myself, I was still celebrating the day's small victory and the indulgent thought of an empty barracks, which meant an empty shower. _Finally_. I had been practically living off of cold washcloth baths and talcum powder for the simple fact of lacking privacy in the communal bathroom. No privacy meant no shower, and no shower meant no shave, so let's just say that things were getting a little _woolly__._ I practically skipped to the bathroom in my slippers and bathrobe, carrying all of the shower essentials in a bag, and three towels that I had been saving for the very occasion.

As soon as I swung open the door to the showering area, I stretched my arms out and raised my head to the sky, in thanks. _Finally. I still smell like pig guts from last week's training exercise._ I cringed a little at the memory.

Setting my things down on the wooden bench hastily, I peered around the corner at the tiled shower room. It was actually kind of creepy, like something from a horror picture. From the floors, up to the ceiling, the whole thing was lined with yellow and white subway tiles. There were four separate shower nozzles each on the two walls opposite each other, and one large drain in the middle. Two small slits of windows let light in from the very top of the wall, and one light bulb with a string hanging down was there to illuminate the experience. It was all very eerie when it was empty and dusk was settling down on the compound, but I wasn't about to let that deter me.

I brought a spare towel and hung it on one of the empty nozzles, before stripping down to nothing but my birthday suit. I let the lukewarm water cascade over me for a while, as I went over the past few weeks in my mind. They were grueling, as I knew they would be. Three long weeks of obstacle courses, morning runs, Army breakfast, and paratrooping fundamentals, yet we weren't even halfway done. Every day I woke, thinking that I wouldn't make it through, but each day somehow I did. I hoped that would stay the same, I thought, lathering my hair for the second time with fruity smelling shampoo.

I kept in the shower for as long as I possibly could, until my fingertips turned into shriveled raisins and my legs got tired of standing. Shutting the water off and wrapping a towel around myself, I made my way over to the sink area and perched on the side, shaving my legs with a straight razor. I looked in the foggy mirror and practiced what I would say to Captain Sobel later that night. Squaring my shoulders with arrogance I made my voice deeper for intimidation purposes "I need this camera Captain, the war depends on it." I snorted, sounding like a MacArthur impersonator.

I pursed my lips seductively

"Oh Herbert. This camera has so many uses." NO. That wouldn't work. I wasn't exactly a seasoned seductress. I ran a hand through my sopping locks and let out a small sigh. I would just have to make it up as I go along, no planning. No planning. What a scary thought for a control freak.

I finished up in the ghostly quiet bathroom, and finished my beauty routine in my humid shoe-box room. After changing a few dozen times, I made my way out the door and into the still England evening. Dusk was settling on the compound and the locusts buzzed in unison. A small smile escaped my lips as a small breeze brushed against the cotton fabric of my gingham summer dress, and my camera bounced around my neck with each step I took.

I knocked on the heavy door three times, before standing back and observing the sign that was bolted to the middle of it in messy chalk scrawl: Cap. H. Sobel, C.O. I quickly got distracted and began to think of the awful feeling of chalk on my hands, so when the dark haired Captain ripped open the door, I almost didn't notice. "Reporter?" Sobel looked perplexed, not angered like I had anticipated.

I smoothed a hand over my dress "Good Evening Captain." He furrowed his bushy brows and leaned against the side of the door frame. "Is everything alright?"

"Peachy, sir." I peered past him into the dimly lit office. He cocked his head suspiciously to one side "Why are you here?"

I grinned "If you let me in, I'll explain." He moved to the side, but kept his eyes fixed on me as I surveyed the extremely organized office in front of me. I made a three sixty turn. "So this is where the magic happens?"

Sobel sat in one of his polished leather sitting chairs. The whole place had a very "hunting lodge" feel "Yes."

"Well it is great, very…" My eyes focused in on a wall covered in portraits of MacArthur, Patton, Teddy Roosevelt, and General Eisenhower. A tight lipped smile crossed my face "Republican."

* * *

**A/N: Welp, there it is. And let me just say, that I've never been known for my punctuality. I really need to stop saying I'll update on a certain day! I'm just setting myself up for failure :/ Anywho, thank you, to all of the people who were still taking time to review, favorite, and follow this story even though I was breaking my updating promise. You're all angels. I know this chapter ended on a strange note, but I wanted to get it up, and so I left ya with a cliff hanger ;)**

***Reminder*:** Hell Doesn't Have to be Lonely **HAS A PLAYLIST** on Spotify! Go to my bio and click on the link. Go. Go Now.

***Here's a snappy little Disclaimer**: **I do not mean any offense to the brave men (and women!) who served/or are currently serving in the military. I do not own Band of Brothers, nor do I wish to own it. And finally, I do not mean ANY offense to Captain Sobel and his family (the only non fiction character featured in this chapter) I am basing my portrayal of his character purely on the character David Schwimmer played in Band of Brothers, not the real man himself.**

**cchickki:** It's totally fine :) And I completely understand, I have been terrible at reviewing your fic *hangs head in shame* but I thank you so much for your loyal support of my story! What you said about my descriptions really made my day! I always feel like they are my biggest weakness when it comes to writing, so thank you so much!

**mngirl:** Why thank you! I'm so, so, so glad you like the 2.0 version! I was so worried that I made a huge mistake by deciding to rewrite, but your review reassured me!


End file.
